2020-01-23 - Almost Normal

The movement towards some semblance of status quo has been once again derailed by the fact that they would have to prepare 13 Elm in a way that makes it conducive to detoxifying someone - in this case, Bennie Oakes. But at the very least, the house has been turned down to a manageable and human temperature in spite of the bitter cold that attempts to seep through wood and plaster, leaving the silhouettes of surrounding buildings and streets hazy through the thick film of fog that seems to rise from the ground and permeate everything. Outside of windows that they've yet to board up, or at the very least, the ones in the bedroom, the gray-white layer keeps their world in a monochromatic palette.

Isabella is not the handiest person, and the last few months have left the intrepid investigator with the hard-learned lesson that she can't make anything to save her life - she can hardly cook, she certainly can't draw, and anything she does end up finishing is so insanely bad that it would be horrifying to anyone with impeccable taste - the Hyacinth Addingtons, Byron Thornes and Vyv Vydals of the world needn't apply. And whenever he walks into the house after some errand to assist in his residence's preparation, he'd find a pillow-mess in the middle of his living room with his still-injured love balancing precariously on a step-ladder attempting to set up a canopy on top of a misshapen pile of cushions that she had clearly meant to be their bed while the sunny blonde was staying with them. She's got some rope, and somehow she's managed to attach some hooks to the ceiling and....why does she look like she's about to hang herself?

Blue Bell, lover of anything that reminds her of string, is busily attacking the dangling end and leaves the archaeologist flailing.

"What-- no! Blue Bell, no! Stop! Oh my g-- "

There's a tiny scream when she slips off the step-ladder. Thankfully, she knows how to fall safely, especially considering her broken ribs; her slender frame lands in the middle of the messy cushion-pile, her failed attempt at an elaborate canopy detaching from its precarious position in the ceiling and flopping over her like a limp fish. The ragdoll cat leaps into the fray, because the rope has landed on top, snatching the end delicately between her teeth and flashing a triumphant, blue-eyed look towards Alexander, tail twitching.

Look, Dad, I win again!

Alexander has his arms full with bags when he comes in, sleepy-eyed and tired-looking. But he's not limping, his hand isn't bandaged, and even the bruises he acquired from the fall on the other side have faded to just smudged of yellow on his skin. So, really? He's doing remarkably well compared to SOME people. "It's fucking cold out there," he mutters, hearing Isabella in the living room. He doesn't look in that direction until the door is locked again (it's Elm - the door stays locked), and he turns around.

When he does, though, he stops, one foot half raised to take a step into the living room, and his eyes going wide. He takes in the pillows. The rope. The cat. The stepladder. And then? The tumble. For once, he doesn't lose his brain and leap to the rescue, because some of the things in his bags are breakable, and that would be UNFORTUNATE. He does, however, crack up laughing. He puts the bags carefully down, and reaches into his jacket pocket. Out comes the phone. Isabella can hear him laughing, can hear the little fake shutterclick sounds of the phone taking pictures as the cat delightedly tramples her. Only once those stop does Alexander step in, pick Blue Bell up, move her firmly off to the side, and then lift up the canopy. Instead of pulling it off Isabella, though, he rolls himself under it with her. "This is cosy," he says, grinning.

Snap-click! Snap-click! And all in the midst of Alexander's laughter, knowing that he has returned home just in time to witness her shame. Still, it doesn't stop her blustering, and he'd be inundated with the sight of the blanket monster flailing a little bit in a concentrated attempt to extricate herself from her fabric-trap.

"Are you-- oh my god, don't you dare!" While Isabella's wide-eyed expression can't be glimpsed considering just how the canopy has fallen on her, a suntanned hand does manage to find a way from underneath, fumbling around for the nearest pillow and hurling it in his direction. Or what she thinks is his direction and in spite of her obscured vision, she actually nearly pegs him! It flings in a rocketing arc and ends up in the kitchen, somewhere, but leaves the investigator unscathed when he finds the other end of the canopy and burrows in, further mutating the blanket monster as it engulfs two adult human bodies instead of just one.

"You're so lucky you're cute," she grumps, and attempts to hold that disgruntled expression in the face of his dark-eyed and grinning self. But she does reach for him, arms draping loosely over broad shoulders and her grousing fading in lieu of a smile. Hands shift, to frame both sides of his face with her fingers, shivering at the cold lingering in his skin - her own warmth will banish that soon enough. "Didn't I tell you that this entire seraglio thing would only spell disaster for any space it occupies? How were errands?"

Alexander's chuckles take on an even more amused tint when he ducks away from the flung pillow. He doesn't taunt her about her miss, nor chide Blue Bell for racing after the pillow and leaping upon it, skidding on the cheap linoleum floor. He just grins and wriggles under there with her. "Me? I'm lucky I'm cute? You're the one who looked like you were about to go all blood eagle on my ceiling."

When she reaches for him, he slides into her arms and leans in to kiss her. He tastes like cold and coffee. "It's a very entertaining disaster, Isabella. You're beautiful when you're at your wits' ends." He's totally unrepentant about the teasing. "And errands were good. Managed not to get lost, found some groceries and other supplies." He bumps his chilled nose against hers. "I didn't realize I'd come back to a sexy home improvement project, though. I could have picked up some harem pants."

Blood eagle? "I understood that reference," Isabella murmurs, eyes half-lidded. Perhaps any other woman would be put off by a comparison to a particularly vicious Skaldic method of ritual execution, but the fact that he knows what it is never fails to awe her, reminding her constantly as to how well read he actually is. "Your Norman roots are showing."

She says nothing for a while, her own mouth warm to the touch and tasting faintly of butter and coffee, in comparison, her fingers sliding into the slight damp of his midnight half-curls and murmuring absently in the middle of their kiss; it leaves her lips shaping nonsensical words, the slight tilt of her head up pressing into the token and deepening the contact for a few seconds' worth of fire in an attempt to rid him entirely of the frost outside. When it breaks and her head falls back into the pillows, dark brows lift towards her hairline, her grin broad enough to chase the usually hidden dimple out of her left cheek. "After last night I'm relatively sure, you'd think I was beautiful even if I was twenty pounds heavier." Fingers lightly trace the shape of his outer ear, the metal of a dandelion charm tickling it, smile growing more mischievous. "Thanks for helping me work off all those potatoes. I don't think we've got them all though...maybe we need a repeat."

The tip of her nose finds his own, brushing gently. "Especially if you're going to talk about harem pants. I hope they're the tear-away ones." She attempts to look over his shoulder towards the kitchen and the grocery bags. "I'll help you with those, but I don't think I'm ready to let you go just yet. Maybe later." Another kiss. "...though I think we need to have a very serious discussion about your definition of sexy."

"Of course you did," Alexander murmurs, with a smile. "You're brilliant and well-educated." He lowers the rest of his body onto the pillow pile, seeming not bothered at all by the blanket covering them, or the swiftly rising temperature of the air trapped in there with them as they kiss. "And you would be beautiful even if you were twenty - or a hundred - pounds heavier," he points out, with amusement. "Never fear that."

At the mention of the repeat, his eyebrows waggle playfully. "My favorite type of workout. You know I'm always helpful. And any pants can be tear-away if you're motivated enough." He slides his hand down her thigh. "I think we can supply motivation. And you leave my definition of sexy alone, Isabella. I like it. It includes you."

"Well, thankfully, I'm young, and vain, and responsible..." COUGH. "...and not about to horrify the world with the way I look a hundred pounds heavier clad in a wetsuit," Isabella laughs, her voice low and husky once he's pressed closer. "I imagine I'd look a lot like a seal, in which case, I would never survive a dive given the plethora of prehistoric predators in the deep finding me tasty prey." She doesn't seem to mind the escalation of warmth, savoring his more significant weight and how their intertwining is quickly turning the weather outside into a very distant and needless memory.

Fingers busily hunt for the hem of his most bottom layer, drawing those elegant appendages over his skin once she finds it, and tracing the shallow dip of his spine. The downward scaling of one broad, questing hand has her shifting that limb upwards to drape lightly against his hip, her mouth on his. "Okay, okay," she murmurs. "I'll leave your definition of sexy, alone, but you're going to have to replace it, because I don't intend to leave you alone for the next hour. Or two."

She pushes up, then, though she would need his help, to roll them both over on the misshapen construct underneath them, though considering all the foam, fabric and cushion, it's surprisingly extremely comfortable. Her knees find either sides of him and while it does pull them partially from under the covers, it at least gives him a full view of her smile as she leans forward to let her face hover above his own, forearms bent at the elbows and pressing into the makeshift pallet at her lean. "Besides," she tells him, that wicked light flaring in the viridian depths of her irises as she looks down at his face. "I'm curious to see how this thing holds up. You wouldn't abandon me in the midst of a necessary experiment, would you, Mister Clayton?"

"Don't knock seals. Seals are sleek and curved, and have big, brown eyes that look up at you. Like this," Alexander widens his own eyes, putting on his best seal-puppy-dog expression until her fingers find his spine. Then, he groans against her mouth, and gives her a quick, playful kiss. He's happy to help her roll on top of him. For some reason.

Once she's settled, his hands slide along the outsides of her thighs, to her hips, while his eyes remain locked on her face. "If we can't break it, I'm going to be kind of disappointed. But I would certainly prefer for us to have to make an effort." An arch of his eyebrows, there - although in the next moment, it turns into something more serious. "I like you." A pause. "I mean. I like being with you. Having you here. Seeing you when we're just going in and out on our day to day things. Knowing you exist. I like that. I'm supposed to make sure you know that. So. I like you."

"I'm in no way knocking seals," Isabella murmurs back at him, laughter in her low tones. "But I'm also very aware of their place in the food chain, especially after all the Shark Week specials we tend to watch in the National Geographic channel in those very rare nights when the two of us are too injured to do anything interesting with our minds and bodies. Together. And I really like doing interesting things with our minds and bodies together, so-- "

But the rest of her playful comment is muffled at their shifting, bedding rumpling underneath them - true to their restless natures, they don't stay in one place, or even in one position, for very long and once she's anchored against his body, she's clearly planning on doing something else because she's nuzzling the underside of his jaw, pressing a kiss on his chin, and peppering light, nipping kisses down his throat until what he says stops her from her gradual and playful traverse down some of those interesting places. Her head looks up to blink at him; he can practically look into those big, gold-flecked eyes and watch electrical impulses fire from the ends of her synapses as she attempts to recalibrate her present line of thinking.

And when all of it finally catches up to her, her features soften. She ends up half-curled on his chest, much like the cat she sometimes is (nevermind of her proud status as an unapologetic dog person). "Well," she begins slowly. "I would hope you like me, because I also like you." It's a soft and teasing lilt, but there's no smile given the seriousness of his expression. A finger twines absently in the curl draped over his forehead. "Though this is kind of...coincidental? Because Easton did ask me that question last night. Whether we were...'shacking up'. I explained to him that you didn't think I was safe where I was living, and that it makes you feel better to have me close." All true. "But I...did...tell him that it was sweet. That you feel that way. And that..." Her eyes turn somewhere to the side of his head, shifting awkwardly. "...I like it too. Saying goodbye to you in the morning when you have to go out, or when I have to. And coming back to you, or you coming back to me, at the end of the day. I actually thought it was just...you know. Largely encouraged by the additional security of knowing where you are and that you're safe but...it's not. Not wholly. Not really." After a moment, she sneaks a glance towards his eyes. "I was also getting somewhat worried if I was getting spoiled, or if you think I was getting spoiled, with...the amount of time we're spending with one another." She gently pokes at his nose, grinning impishly. "Though I'm finding it terribly difficult to be apologetic at how accessible your rare cuddles are ever since I ended up here."

Alexander says, "I should hope not. I hear that they plot revenge." It's lazily said, and Alexander laughs openly at the reference to shark week. Otherwise, he seems content to bask under the kisses, and then listen to her, his eyes half-lidded and thoughtful. "I didn't think I would like anyone staying with me," Alexander says, after a long moment. "Not Isolde, not you. But it was nice to have Isolde here. And it's even better to have you here." He wrinkles his nose when she pokes at it. "Which isn't to say...I like my space. I do. Not being alone is weird. But I like you, and being with you. I just wanted you to know."

"And I don't think spending any amount of time with me leads someone to being 'spoiled'," Alexander says, dryly. "I don't really spoil people. That I know of." He stretches out underneath her, fingers and toes all pointed and his muscles going taut, then relaxed underneath her as he lets the stretch go. "How is Easton doing?""

"It's the crabs, isn't it," Isabella jokes. "Because I don't think I've seen you laugh so hard since the time you discovered my father's extremely inappropriate barbecuing apron. I'm basically paying my rent the last few weeks through sheer entertainment value." It's all good-naturedly said, pressing her lips gently against his forehead as he basks under her attention. Though he'd find her easily distracted when he looks up at her with his hooded dark eyes, his voice pitched in the pleasant, lazy baritone that electrifies her every time he uses it - the combination is extremely unfair. "And...thank you. For letting me know, even if I am curious as to why you thought that you should let me know." There's a question in her eyes there as she looks down at him. "Regardless, I'm glad that you don't find me a burden to have around and that you even enjoy it, and I hope you know I like being with you, too." She leans in to kiss him gently. "Though if..." She hesitates. "If you do need to reclaim your space, I hope you know that you can tell me that, too. I mean...I like...I love living with you, but not if it's going to make you feel weird, or trapped."

His words about not spoiling people earns him an incredulous look, followed by a laugh that she attempts to bury into his chest by lowering her face into it. "Says the man who orders me my favorite thing from the Thai place I like, after spending hours building me a snow-shipwreck in the backyard!" Her chin returns to her hand, watching his expression from where she's curled on him. "Easton's fine - happier than the last time I've seen him. He's a little confused about this surprising turn with his relationship with Bennie after they talked, but I told him that he should probably focus on making things right with her, first."

"The crabs were hilarious," Alexander says, without shame. "And the cat really enjoyed them. Luigi, not so much. He's less of an adventurer than Blue Bell," he claims. He spreads his fingers wide, and walks them up her ribs. "And I like that you're comfortable enough to try things that don't always work," he tells her, solemnly. There's a glance to the wreck of the seraglio as corroboration. "You're fearless in exploration. It's beautiful."

He considers, then nods. "I'll tell you. But I'm getting a break soon enough while you go tame the beasts of academia, so I think we're fine." He doesn't miss that question. He clears his throat, and supplies, "Yule. I had to drop off some things related to his ongoing explorations."

He smiles, crookedly, at the elaboration on Easton. "I'm glad. They're good for each other, I think. Mostly. And while I don't mind punching with him if he needs it, I'm glad he's feeling better. And Bennie is, too. They want to work on it. That's not magic. But it's not nothing."

"You mean I'm stupidly stubborn," Isabella banters back, though she is radiating good humor as she says it. "Who doesn't know to listen when the universe is begging her not to create any further..." Emerald eyes lift to their not-quite-seraglio. "...monstrosities. But I'm happy that you find it endearing. I'll take that any day of the week." There's a faint squirming, and another bout of smothered laughter when his fingers walk up her ribs, and she turns her face to nuzzle the underside of his jaw. "Not that you aren't fearless in your own right when it comes to exploration, your hands seem to like moving over the more dangerous parts of me." He'd feel her smile against his skin.

She leaves the other things unaddressed for now, her mind turning back to her friend and reliving his face from the night before. "He's going to work on his drinking, he only had a beer when I saw him. Progress, there. And with Bennie spending a week or more with us to get clean, I think if being together enables them to transform into the best version of themselves? I think they are, too. Good for each other. I don't think any worthwhile success is easy to grasp anyway, not without a fight."

Yule's mention carries with it a faint hint of exasperation, but her smile is laced with a growing fondness for the medical examiner. "If he's meddling, he must really like us both," she tells him. "But you're right, you are getting a break while I cross the pond. Unless you're very curious as to what it looks like on the other side, in which case I'm sure we can arrange it. If not, I suppose we can just continue living in sin when I get back." She looks down at him, grinning. "At this rate, Father Daniel's going to demand that I talk to him about the state of my soul the next time I see him."

Alexander says, "Stubborn. Never stupid. Exasperating, terrifying. Occasionally infuriating. But not stupid. And," Alexander waggles a finger at her, "these aren't monstrosities. They're experiments. Embrace science." When she squirms, he grins, and as his hand goes back to her ribs, his fingers curl to tickle her rather than just stroke and tease.

"And good. He drinks too much." It's a blunt observation, and a tired one. His expression lightens in the next moment, though, when he says, "I don't know if I'd call it meddling. He did show me the note from the mystery Veil Corporation, though. I'd done some research on it when we first got the soup and didn't find anything. Might be worth checking with Anne, if you see her, on if it's come up in any town records before now." He skates over the idea of leaving Gray Harbor, but raises an eyebrow at mention of the priest. "Father Daniel, hmm? Just don't mention that you're living with me. My parents only just stopped trying to guilt me back to Mass a few years ago.""

"You-- !" Isabella releases a louder laugh, and her hands shift so she could attack his ribs, embarking on her own quest for righteous vengeance as her fingertips curl in to hunt for the tender spaces between his bones. She also takes advantage of her superior position, when her legs bracket him into the makeshift bedding and her fingers find skin. Her return salvo is only mollified by his compliments. "Fine. I'll embrace the experiments and I'll accept all the other observations, also, but only because I like the way you kiss." Not only, it's a lie, but she's clearly teasing him over everything else, why not this one?

The remarks about FCN has her mischievous look fading, making room for a slightly more disgruntled one. "August told me about his MRIs," she tells him. "And that he received a note from them, also, looking for remarkable individuals. He's thinking of taking them up on their offer, but not alone - bringing Itzhak and Eleanor in that excursion. But yeah, I'll ask Anne when I see her, next. We have an outing with the girls next week." There's a quiet laugh. "August might be right after all, he said something about reclaiming some of my life back once my thesis revisions are finished."

If she notices the avoidance of the idea of leaving Gray Harbor, she doesn't show it. Instead, it's the lifted-brow glance regarding Father Daniel that has her pausing. "I don't think I've attended mass since I was fourteen, for Christmas," she tells him. "But since we found out so little in our last trip to the other side, I had a thought of checking to see if I could find out more about Jill and her branch of the family." Her hand lifts again, to play with Alexander's hair, voice growing more thoughtful and absent. "Catholic parishes all over the world have registries. The tradition started around the 1400's, every priest in charge keeps records of important things that happen in the congregation, or are attached to it - baptism records, burial records, communions...and if you go further back, even trials." She meets his eyes there. "The bigger ones have online databases, and normally they're accessible to the public for research. Gray Harbor by comparison is small, so I doubted right away that there would be such a database, but I didn't think there would be bars to access since you can access these records anywhere else in the world without much trouble. But the rules, as usual, are different here." There's a faint frown. "Anyway, Father Daniel said plenty of the oldest records got lost in a flooding in the late 60's, but since Jill died in 1977 and I didn't know what her age was when she disappeared, maybe she was born after that flooding. I asked Father Daniel to look for me, and he said he'd keep in touch."

"Me," Alexander agrees, and as she returns fire, his grin turns sharp. He twists away from the tickles as best he can - but trapped by her thighs, he has to fight back more directly. So he does, and the tickle war is on! He's ruthless and persistent, so despite his snirks and laughter, keeps up the assault until he has to take a breath and breathe heavily.

It's only after some panting that he's able to turn back to the conversation. "Yeah. Don't know what's up with them. Or how they even find out about this stuff. But be careful." He smiles. "And you should. Enjoy life. Go out with friends. And teach me to dive, once the water warms."

The rest makes him silent. "...I doubt he will," he says, at last. "Records involving Baxters don't last here. But maybe there's something Over There? Through the Archivist, I mean. He, it, had a full family tree. And as I was talking to Yule, I only just remembered that the Archivist diverted us from investigating what we were originally looking into. The transfer of land from the Baxters to the Addingtons, and all of that. I've been wondering if it's worth trying to pick it up again."

She loses that fight, because by the time he actually stops tickling her - and while she's only barely prevented herself from crying out for mercy - she has returned to being curled up on top of his chest, red faced and green eyes watery from tears of laughter that she hasn't managed to shed. Isabella plants a solid kiss on his mouth after that, however, unable to help herself, and pulls back to track the way mirth sparks and lingers over his hard, but handsome features, and etches the way his face looks within the jealous galleries of her mental library.

"I haven't forgotten," she promises, regarding the dive. "I even know precisely where we should go. The Pacific Northwest is full of diving 'parks', where enthusiasts of all levels practice, I don't know if I mentioned...and the one where I intend to bring you has an actual shipwreck incorporated within the boundaries, just a short drive from here. It's how I got my start, when I was six and out with my father in the water for the first time." There's something almost shy about her confession there, her eyes skittering away from his face as she remembers.

There's a nod, when he brings up the Archivist again. "I've honestly been planning to exhaust all efforts here first before going back over there again. Especially not so soon after..." what happened to Anne, and she's unable to help the agonized twisting of her expression there. "But if we can't find anything else, we can ask it, since we're inquiring about a person. And I think so, about the deed. I definitely haven't let go of trying to find the truth behind all of that is, though if we're going to try and find a record of it, we'll probably need to request for an appointment in another department. Anne can help us there, also, I think. I don't know of anyone who's more familiar with the Veil bureaucracy than she is." She chews on her bottom lip. "Father Daniel did tell me that some of the older families provided copies of their records to replace the ones the Church lost after the flood, though I don't think he gave me a straight answer when I asked whether the Addingtons were one of these families. I do know, however, that they have a wealth of them underneath the Church."

After a moment, she continues, "And I wonder if it's not worth exploring the St. Mary's area, also. On the other side. If the cemetery here doesn't have any Baxter graves, maybe it'll be different there."

Alexander returns kiss for kiss, although he's still grinning with pleasure. He won. Maybe it's not just Isabella who can get absurdly competitive about the smallest things. Either way, his hands return to caressing and cuddling now that tickle supremacy has been established. "Shipwrecks?" His expression lights up with pleasure. "I...think I'd like that. I've never explored a shipwreck, before. I will place myself entirely in your capable hands," he adds, voice soft as she looks away.

"Could always break into the church basement and have a look around," Alexander points out, blandly. Because he knows he's already going to hell, so why not add breaking into a church to his many sins? "Or...well. We could ask Patrick if we could go through the Addington House's library. I don't know that they'd just leave important documents in there, anywhere, but you never know. Sometimes things slip through the cracks."

He goes tense, then - not about breaking in, or about dealing with the Addington family about their secrets, but about looking at a church on the Other Side. "We...could. The City Hall over there is very fucked up, though. What's a church going to be like? A graveyard?"

As his face lights up, Isabella's own visible excitement grows. "You'll love it," she tells him. "And if it gets too much, there are ways to keep you calm, and it isn't as if we won't be able to communicate either." She freely offers it, to occupy her mental space, and while she's doing something she absolutely loves, and is passionate about. "I still intend to teach you the hand signals most divers use while they're down there, because I don't feel comfortable signing the appropriate releases until we go through all of them together, but I think you'll enjoy learning those, also. And I intend to introduce you to the shallows, first, so we can practice breathing through the regulator together, before we move to deeper waters. I..." She can't help but laugh, her arms curling around him and squeezing him tightly. "I'm so happy you want to try. I mean, every time I mention doing it for fun, most of my friends even back in the UK would look at me like I'm insane. But it's perfectly safe when you're with someone who knows what they're doing, and I've done hundreds of these, Alexander." Almost a lifetime. "I can't wait to show you the world under the water, it's so beautiful and alien and when you think about how the Earth is three-fourths water..."

She can go on, and on.

But when he thinks about breaking into the Church basement, she angles him a long look. "So long as you don't horrify Father Daniel in the doing," she says, signing onto that ticket to Hell when she's not even trying to dissuade him. "And if the demands of our own research require it. And Father Daniel suggested I look into Addington House also, actually - so if we could ask Patrick to take a look at its library, we should. Maybe it'll give us a clue as to their actual relationship with the Baxters."

She attempts to be soothing, though, at his tension, her hands slipping through fabric, and finding skin; long, gentle strokes over the yellow lines lingering on his ribs as they heal. "I don't know. I'd rather we not go, if we don't have to. But something tells me we would have to, eventually. Still, no need to pull on that thread too soon, and I'd honestly like us to be more prepared in these excursions than we have been - treat these like actual field research expeditions as opposed to the roughshod way we've been doing it so far. If I hadn't brought my gun..." Her expression darkens briefly. "Anne's putting together a standard gear list, August and I are talking about practice runs to determine the right weight and recommending things to said list. No more going over until we do at least that much."

"Are you suggesting that I pop some Prozac before we go diving?" Alexander teases, although he seems half serious. After all, he's the one who's pointed out he's prone to freaking out in unfamiliar situations before, and they know how dangerous that can be. At least he won't have a knife. "Either way, I'm looking forward to it. And I like learning hand signals." A pause. "I can probably do it without learning, though." Interest suddenly sparks in his eyes. "Make one of the signals. Don't tell me what it is."

He chuckles at the look. "I'd rather not distress the priest. I haven't heard anything bad about him. I don't mind distressing Patrick a little." A pause. "Went drinking with him a few days ago. He thinks that if we all just stopped using our abilities and poking the other side, it'd leave us alone." His tone is...thoughtful. "I don't think we have enough data to say one way or the other. But he claims that he hasn't used his abilities at all, and hasn't had any trouble."

When she starts stroking his body, he drops his hands to rest lightly on hers. "I think that's a good idea. For us to be prepared. We have to think of the Veil as...hostile territory. Maybe it's not intentionally so, but it's very dangerous. And," he gives her a look, "no trying to dive head first down holes after people. I can pull together a few things, too, that might be helpful."

"If you think it'll help, but I think you'll be fine without it," Isabella tells him with a broad grin. "And if you do freak out, I'll just knock you out and drag you back to the surface." She's joking! Probably. But there are equal odds that she does mean what she says; panicking underwater especially with sensitive equipment is simply not an option that she would in good conscience risk, even for an adventurer prone to recklessness as she is. "But we'll link up just in case." It's familiar to the both of them - and these days, Alexander is the only one who even knows how to get around her psychic disability in that regard. If it was another person, she would definitely be recommending Prozac.

But with his request to make a hand signal and see if he understands it, she shifts, just slightly, her weight braced on her knees. She makes a fist, and extends her forearm diagonally from her, lifting her brows to see if he manages to understand what it means. "What do you think that means?" she asks, of course taking him up on his challenge.

There's a fond expression when the young woman thinks back to Father Daniel. "He's always been very nice to me and my brother. We used to play on the church grounds with Byron," she murmurs thoughtfully. "Might be because he's Canadian. He arrived the year before I was confirmed. Mom was devout, when she was alive. She insisted." And hearing that about the late Irene Baxter Reede is probably not a surprise, considering what little Alexander already knows of her, and what her father had told him over Christmas - a beautiful, but haunted woman. Though the somber look fades into another grin when he mentions distressing Patrick. "Don't tell me you're starting to like him," she teases. "Should I be jealous? He is unfairly attractive....for a blond."

The expression in her stare becomes more contemplative, in turn, as she considers the Addington's words more seriously. "I don't know if that's actually true," she mutters. "If this place wants you badly enough..." She pauses. "I tried to forget that I even had these gifts, but they would manifest unconsciously anyway, particularly when I'm in a dig, trying to look for artifacts, signs of an ancient civilization. And while I didn't get lost, I still had very strange dreams." She had told him that - usually of her brother, calling her. "Even from across the pond."

Fingers skate gently over his skin in light, butterfly's touches - as if afraid that he would crack and break underneath her if she isn't careful. His hands over her knuckles still her, however, and she looks up at him then. "I won't dive in if you won't dive in," she points out with a half-lidded look. "You can't expect me not to follow you if you step into the breach. If I was unwilling to take some risks, I would be staying home." She shifts closer, to peck lightly on the tip of his nose. "But if you have recommendations of your own, that would be ideal. This is the kind of endeavor that should have all of us collaborating." Brows draw down at her words, falling quiet as she thinks. "...and honestly, I think...cooperation. Looking out for one another. I think that might be more important for reasons other than the obvious."

Alexander is never one to turn down a chance to link minds, so the idea of doing so while also exploring underwater makes him smile. "That sounds like a plan, then. And it means danger," he says, without hesitation when studying the signal. "It's very peculiar. I can feel your intent, the meaning behind the 'word'."

He listens to the rest, then snorts at her teasing about Patrick. "He did call me pretty," he teases back, "but I think we'd end up strangling each other before we got past the hot makeout portion of the evening. And I'm pretty sure you and Anne would shank us," he adds, with a grin. "I think he's missing some nuance, as well. He's ended up in at least a couple of weirdnesses - and even if they weren't primarily directed at him, I'm not sure hunkering down and pretending none of this exists is really a solution. As tempting as it is."

"I dove in to get Anne. Because she dove in without waiting for people," he adds, with a grump. "It's not the same thing. Anyway, you should let me take the heavy hits. I'm sturdier than you are - even as sturdy as you are." He squeezes her hands. "And mostly my suggestions are behavioral. Be cautious, be prepared, try not to get trapped. Stuff like that. I'm not...actually very useful when it comes to exploring the Veil," he admits. "I lack the right abilities, or the right background skills."

"Damn it." Isabella snaps her fingers, though she doesn't really mean it as a curse. There's a quiet laugh, before she returns to her earlier position, affection writ large over the fine lines of her face as she looks down on his rugged, well-loved own. "Well, you still need to learn to do them. I insist. Besides, it might be something that we might need later - we have Ancient Greek and Latin, we can include PADI hand signals as one of our growing list of secret languages, especially if you're going down there with me." She waggles her eyebrows playfully.

She squints at the news that Patrick Addington called him pretty, though it doesn't have heat; part of their banter. "There's something absolutely strangle-worthy about his air, it's true. But it could just be my Baxter blood talking," she says in a rare moment of dark humor on multiple fronts. "And turtling works most of the time - nature tells us that it can be quite effective, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't use what we have when something's really trying to kill us. We evolved this way for a reason."

And now she is frowning at him visibly when he tells her to let him take the heavy hits. "We'll have to do better compromising on that front. You are sturdier." Her hands slide up higher over his sides in emphasis, until one set of fingers splays in the center of his ribcage, feeling the thrumming beats of his heart under the surface - sounds and pressure that calm her with the certainty of his own resilient vitality. "But I'm inherently resistant to physical damage, also. You could try to worry a little less about me on that front." The last is both teasing and chastizing, though her tone also makes it clear that she knows that is impossible. She leans in to kiss him, but that, too, is a cheat - to silence his inevitable protests, perhaps.

Pulling away, but only a little, she makes a quiet, thoughtful noise. "You're clever, though, and you know how to improvise - those are more valuable than you think. But if these are going to be treated like formal expeditions, August and I should probably start training interested persons on the methods that go into that. It could be fun, learn something new."

"And I don't argue. New knowledge is always good to acquire," Alexander agrees, cheerfully. "And I don't think it's just Baxter blood - I'm pretty sure it's just Patrick. He's...okay, though. More than I would have thought he'd be." A shrug, there. "Although I get the feeling that he's repressing a lot, and one day is going to snap and try to beat someone to death with a bottle of gin or something." He snorts. "Then again, aside from the repression, people say that about me all the time, so, what do I know?"

"Did we evolve, though?" Alexander shakes his head. "We don't know if there's even anything physical about this. Maybe it's given over because something over there thinks we look especially tasty and it's like...marinade." He takes the hand that she splays on his chest, and lifts it up to kiss the palm. "You're tough. I do not disagree. But I would feel better if you let me take more of the hits." He frowns at her. Frowwwwwwn. "I'll try not to be obnoxious about it, but just remember that's my preference." To the expeditions, he gives a cautious nod. "It's certainly better than going in there unprepared."

"You think so?" The look in Isabella's eyes draws inward; he'd know it well, the way she digs deep to access her memories. She is no eidetiker, but whenever it involves someone she cares about, her recollection for details is akin to a steel trap. "Anne told me once that he has never told her about his reasons why he's so determined to detach himself from this, other than his siblings' deaths over the summer- though I get the impression that this proclivity is an older thing. But then again, the two of them don't really talk." She frowns quietly. "Not that I'm suddenly a massive expert in relationships, but I learned relatively quickly that if I wanted to be with you, I'd have to be better at communicating...and they have a past history, so that was somewhat surprising to me." Her expression turns faintly rueful. "She had a similar story to our drawer conversation."

His question regarding their potential evolution has her thinking again, chewing on the cushion on her bottom lip. "Yule was hoping to find some genetic markers in our blood," she begins. "But I told him that I wasn't convinced that there'd be anything biological that we could detect. My favorite theory? We all have the potential for the Talent - it's already built into our brains after millions of years of human development - but that potential has to be triggered in some way, either by a catalyst or a series of parameters based on a multitude of background and experience factors. However, I'm not..." She sighs. "I'm not a scientist, so I wouldn't even begin to know how to test that."

He'd find no resistance when he takes her hand, the gesture softening the look in her eyes, drawn away from an academic's contemplations. The touch of his warmth against the lines of it is enough to draw her back to the present. "I know," she murmurs. "You'd do it for anyone, but especially for me. You have to understand, however, I don't particularly enjoy seeing you get hurt, even if I am constantly fascinated by your scars." Her hand turns further against his face, cupping it gently, her thumb tracing the shape of his right cheekbone. "I'm not going to say that I'm not worth protecting, but I've already lost someone that way."

"Mmm. He said he hasn't used his abilities in ten years. I don't know if it's just about having left Gray Harbor, or," Alexander shrugs, "something else. Either way, he hasn't shown any inclination to talk about it. Not that he has to. I'm not sure we're even friends." He reaches out to play with her hair, smiling. "They'll figure it out. Or they won't, and you'll have to console Anne, and Patrick will probably drink himself into some highly regrettable actions." It's matter-of-fact.

"Mmm. I don't think the MRIs that August handed over will show anything, either. But it's hard to say whether that's because there's nothing there, or because someone's meddling. Yule pointed out that it seems odd that FCN would have intercepted the samples if there was nothing there. I think that's why he wants his own lab equipment - and thank you for discouraging grand theft science, by the way." A quick smile. He leans into the touch on his face. "Yes, well. It won't stop me, you know."

"She's not been able to forget him even after their ancient history," Isabella tells Alexander, hints of visible resignation on her face. "I know someone who's lost when I see one." After all, she's convinced that she sees one in the mirror every day. But that, too, fades in favor of a smile; dark hair tangles over his fingers as he buries them within the mass, left wavy and loose today - it's just warmer to keep it down, even when she's left it up for most of the Summer and Fall. Her face turns to press her mouth against his inner wrist, finding its sensitive hollow above the leather cuff he wears and savoring the frozen touch of the blue stones against her skin.

"If FCN specializes in creating items imbued with special properties, it stands to reason that they may have lab equipment calibrated specifically for that," she murmurs. "I'll be interested to know what August, Eleanor and Itzhak find out in their visit." Though she still doesn't seem to like the idea of them going there. But his remarks about her discouragement to Yule has her laughing softly. "I told him I'd prefer to get my doctorate first before I get arrested. He wants to procure his own lab equipment from San Francisco, but I told him to actually build the space for it first. Maybe I can convince him to find a closer destination."

It won't stop me, you know.

She tilts her head down towards his. "From what?" she wonders quietly, meeting his eyes, that same, passionate ache hinted over her expression. She is a woman attached to her ferocious determination and independence, but to claim that she is immune to such gestures would be an absolute lie. "Being my meat shield?"

Alexander's expression goes half-lidded and a little lost, itself, when she kisses his inner wrist. "Mm. Yes. Well. They will or they won't." He doesn't seem inclined to interfere too much in that particular, complicated relationship. It's not like that it often helps to have a third party stick an oar in. Besides, something Isabella says has his eyebrows going up. "...visit? Are they going to FCN? How? Why, in God's name? That seems like a terrible idea."

He grins. "And yes. Being your meat shield. It is my pleasure." He even manages a little half bow as much as one can reclining on a pile of pillows.

"I don't know if it's mine," Isabella grumps, flashing him a baleful eye. She prods him insistently with a knuckle against his ribs. "You're impossible. Know that I'll be doing my best to resist that at every turn, just to warn."

She turns her face at that, to absently nuzzle the hollow of his scruffy cheek. "I told August that, especially if the trip runs the risk of coming face-to-face with an entity called the Vivisectionist. But August thinks we can't afford not to know, so he's taking Itzhak and Eleanor with him to set an appointment. I don't know if he's actually told them yet, but that's the plan. Besides, it isn't as if we have room to talk as far as recklessness goes, given our trips to the Veil and our constant poking and prodding at old, but open wounds." She pauses from dispensing her affection before looking up at him.

"Yule has an experiment in mind that he needs my help and Minerva's on," she tells him quietly. "Sometime this weekend. Hopefully it'll yield some results."

"If you don't think I'll drag you away if I think I need to, you don't remember that time in the boathouse very well," Alexander says, archly. "So try not to get yourself into situations where we have to have that fight." He reaches out to boop her nose, delicately as she nuzzles him. "And August is reckless. He seems so steady, but when it comes to over there, he's more reckless than you'd imagine." He sighs. "But they're all adults, and if that's what he wants to do..."

The mention of the experiment causes him to frown. Carefully, he says, "What sort of experiment? And what precautions are you taking?"

The reminder regarding the houseboat has her own mischief resurfacing, her smile tilting upwards. Otherwise, Isabella doesn't dignify the rest of it with a response. Instead: "He won't be alone, and like I said....the danger is less when people are working together." The boop on her nose has it twitching, before she settles fully on his chest, her cheek pressed against where his heart beats. "I was defying the monsters during that footprint tag game, enough that I got the sense that an attack was imminent, but when people started holding hands and working together to save others, I felt it lessen...and slip away. Same with the snow globe incident in Addington House - we didn't get out of it until we all started singing together. I don't know if it sounds ridiculously saccharine or naive or optimistic, but maybe the hold of these things lessen when we actively foster a sense of community among one another."

She hesitates, but only briefly, and continues, "Father Daniel said that the homeless problem in Gray Harbor is worsening these days, also," she tells him quietly.

As if sensing his frown, she looks up to meet his eyes. "He wants to test his theory of imbuing nullification qualities in an object, which is why he asked for Minerva's help - and I'm not exactly sure why he needs a mover, but I'm the only one that he knows and trusts, so I said I'll do it - and I'm familiar with his theories and experiments, anyway. I'm not quite sure what precautions he's put in place, but I trust that I'll see them once I get to the site." She presses a soft kiss against his jaw. "We'll be careful. I'll ask Minerva to cast some of her protection magic, just in case. It saved your life, the last time."

"Mm. Maybe," Alexander allows, but cautiously, finding it as difficult to believe in the power of cooperation as he does in the idea that just stopping using abilities is the solution. "I don't think it's saccharine, and it's good data, but just don't...overly rely on it until there's some independent corroboration." A nod at the mention of the priest's observation. "I'm not surprised. We know the town is calling people who have abilities. Some of them can handle the abilities they have and still live a normal sort of life. Others can't. Or, like me, manage a marginal existence as long as nothing throws us too badly off our stride," he admits, dryly. "And there's a lot in the Harbor that can throw you off your stride."

He wraps his arms around her and relaxes, his eyes closing. "Mm. I won't tell you to be careful, because it won't help. But do tell Yule that if you get hurt, I might have to break something that he's fond of. Like a femur. Probably his own."

"The Fury told us that we should be treating this as a puzzle, instead of a battle," Isabella reminds quietly. "And while I know that ought to be taken with a grain of salt considering who she works for, I don't think she's lying, either." She had managed to crack a piece of it, having seen it as a challenge - calling her out while her blood was up and furious, but that had been happenstance in the end, or so she thinks - it wasn't as if the woman had been expecting an archaeologist with a Greek and Roman background to be in attendance. "And I don't think you're doing all that badly, these days. Paying work, clothes that fit, a reliable social circle, a girlfriend who lives with you." She grins faintly against his jaw. "Some would say that's almost a normal life, by Gray Harbor's standards."

She sinks further into him, encouraged by his sturdy, twining limbs, her small kisses soft, gentle things meant to lull him further into a more relaxed state. "Don't," she tells him quietly with a low chuckle. "I like Yule. He and I connect, and there's a lot about him that reminds me of you." He'd feel her smile against his skin. "You're sexier, though."

"Yes, well. The Fury was trying to torture you, so I think more than a grain of salt is required. Possibly a whole cellar of salt," Alexander grumbles. And he grimaces at her list, slithering out of the embrace they had been sharing with an abrupt motion. "Mm. I make no promises. So, try not to get hurt." He unfolds himself and stands up, looking suddenly restless and squirrelly. "I'm...going to go get some air. Go for a walk. I'll put up the groceries first, though. When I get back, I'll make some dinner." He's already suiting words to actions, going to pick up the bags and relocate them to the kitchen.

It's the abruptness that catches her sideways, Isabella left blinking and staring off after him as he eases off the pile, to pick up the bags and move to the kitchen. Confusion filters though her expression, a sidelong glance cast to the cat - who does nothing to enlighten her as to what had just happened. "Um. Okay?" Though the last word sounds uncertain, hearing the clatter of things being put away at the kitchen, a small frown tugging onto the corners of her mouth and unable, at the moment, to discern what exactly she said that had sent him running away.

Or walking away. He claims the pace is slower but if that isn't what's happening, she'd eat her shoe. She slides out of the blankets and moves towards the kitchen, her shoulder finding the entryway and sliding her hands in her pockets. "What did I say?" she wonders out loud - there's no heat, not even a lick of frustration - she's just absolutely bewildered, and it shows.

Alexander is putting the groceries away. He does it himself, usually, because he's almost compulsively neat, and everything has its place. Its exact place. His brow is furrowed as he moves things from bags to cabinets and the fridge, but he pauses when Isabella appears in the doorway. "You didn't say anything wrong," he says, quietly. "Don't worry about it. I just need some time to think about some things." He throws her a thin little smile, then continues to put away the items.

She is a confrontational creature, and the more he avoids the issue, the more Isabella's frown becomes more prominent; the frustration that wasn't there earlier starts to filter outward.

But she closes her eyes and takes a breath. "Okay," is all she says, and somewhat reluctantly, before she moves so she could reach for one of the bags. She did say she would help put the groceries away, her furrowed-brow look directed to a jar in her hand instead as the two of them work to get the kitchen in some semblance of order. That, at least, will look a little neater than the present state of the living room.